


i know where to lay

by figure8



Series: run this town [2]
Category: C-Pop, NINE PERCENT (Band), 偶像练习生 | Idol Producer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mob, Light Angst, M/M, Organized Crime, Power Imbalance, Prostitution, Unrequited Love, it's really not as fucked up as the tags make it sound i swear, sex as self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-25 18:09:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14982716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/figure8/pseuds/figure8
Summary: Xukun is an escort. Ziyi is the right hand of the mob boss who owns the club Xukun works out of. This is not a love story.





	i know where to lay

**Author's Note:**

> chronologically, this is set before part 1 of the run this town series, but while i wrote these to be read in any order and/or as standalones, optimally you should read them in the order they are posted.   
> once again i'm not sure?? this warrants a dubcon warning??? i don't think so??   
> title from eyes closed by halsey

_ Now if I keep my eyes closed  _

_ He looks just like you _

_ But he’ll never stay _

_ They never do _

  
  


Strobe lights, red velvet couch, Dom Pérignon spilling from crystal glasses; everything here is artificial and too much. Too sweet, too expensive, too bright. Ziyi blinks, feeling a bead of sweat roll down his temple. He is here on business, officially. Checking on one of the clubs at the edge of town, because no one up the food chain has set foot here in a while. Really, Ziyi is here to escape Zhengting. Both literally and metaphorically. This place is diametrically opposed to everything Zhengting is. It is vulgar and loud, almost-naked boy-toys dancing on the counters, the smell of liquor and sex in the air thick like incense. Ziyi doesn’t really care. It’s not the kind of atmosphere he would ever seek out, but he doesn’t feel offended by it. And he’s not blind. The dancers are hot, that’s why they were hired in the first place. So it’s easy on the eye, at least. 

Most people are surprised when they learn who exactly operates more than half the gay nightclubs in Shanghai, but organized crime has always been money first, bigotry second. Closing oneself to any sort of market is stupid. Mr. Zhu, peace be upon him, was many things, but stupid was never one of them. 

Like all the establishments owned by black societies, this club has a private VIP area, in which Ziyi is currently lounging. There’s a Martini on the table in front of him, but Ziyi hasn't touched it in a while. Earlier, right after he came in, the manager went over the numbers with him, and everything seemed to be accounted for. Ziyi shouldn't be here. There’s no real excuse for all this stalling. 

“Hey,” a voice takes him out of his thoughts. “Can I get you anything else?” 

Ziyi raises his eyes. It’s a young man, probably around his age. Pretty face, plump lips, dirty-blonde hair; he’s not dressed enough to be a barman but dressed too much to be a gogo dancer. His black jeans are so ripped they might as well be shorts, and his red tank top is cut so low at the arms Ziyi can see his nipples from the side. 

This is what this place  _ really  _ sells, Ziyi knows. Beautiful, pliant bodies. 

“I’m good,” Ziyi shakes his head. He waited far too long to leave, he realizes. This boy was sent in because someone thought this was what Ziyi had come to the club for. 

Pretty Face frowns. “If I’m not your type, there’s plenty to pick from,” he insists, but he sounds almost affronted at the idea. 

“You are my type,” Ziyi answers, because it's true. “I just didn't come here for this.” 

It’s a mistake. He knows it as soon as the words pass his lips. The boy latches onto the information like a vulture. He walks over to Ziyi, straddles him but doesn't sit on his lap, his ass millimeters from Ziyi’s crotch, arms wrapped loosely around Ziyi's neck.

“I’ll make it worth your while,” he murmurs against Ziyi's ear, sultry. 

“I'm sure you will,” Ziyi says, and his tone is still stable but it's getting harder to breathe. “It’s still not what I came here for.” 

“You're a sucker for planning, aren't you?” the boy smirks, and now he sounds amused, dropping the seductive facade. He lowers his body carefully, settles down on Ziyi. “Bet you have color-coded folders and everything.” 

“I do, actually.” 

“That's hot,” Pretty Face snorts. It's a short laugh, but it still reverberates through Ziyi's body. It’s getting tougher to remember why he's saying no. He closes his eyes, and Zhengting’s face flashes in his mind. 

“What’s your name?” Ziyi asks. “I’ll tell your boss you were good. You don’t have to do this.”

“It’s August. And what do you mean, this? You got a moral problem with the fact I fuck for money? That’s funny, because I know who you are. Remind me exactly how much of your yearly income directly comes from  _ this _ ?”

Ziyi feels the anger uncoil itself inside his gut, like a dragon waking up, stretching. He takes one deep breath, tells the beast to rest. August looks angry too, the sharp line of his jaw hard and tense. But he hasn’t moved from Ziyi’s lap, which means he can feel Ziyi’s cock stiffen underneath him. His eyes go wide when he realizes, and then he smiles, insolence personified, and rocks his hips experimentally. 

“So this is what gets you off,” he marvels, voice low and suggestive all over again. 

“No,” Ziyi shakes his head, but he sounds a little strangled. 

August keeps the torturous movement going, and soon enough Ziyi’s slacks become uncomfortably tight. 

“No?” August inquires, fake innocence dripping like honey. “You didn’t want me when I acted like I wanted you. You only started showing interest when I got pissed off.” 

That’s not exactly true. Ziyi has  _ eyes _ . August laughs, and Ziyi realizes he said that out loud. 

“You got issues to work out, baby?” August teases, lips brushing against Ziyi’s cheek. “Rejection turns you on?” 

“No,” Ziyi says again, and he’s pleasantly surprised when his voice doesn't waver this time. “Does playing hard to get turn  _ you _ on?”

“Maybe,” August says, and then he proceeds to suck a hickey onto Ziyi’s neck, high enough that no scarf or collar will hide it. Ziyi doesn’t really mind, but August doesn’t know that. He’s doing it on purpose. He’s trying to get Ziyi mad again. 

“You’re not going to make me lose control,” Ziyi says. “You’re not  _ that _ irresistible.” 

“So you’re not gonna fuck me?”

“I’m not gonna fuck you,” Ziyi confirms. “Come on, get off.”

August snickers at that. “Yeah, I’ve been trying to.”

“Get off  _ me _ ,” Ziyi rolls his eyes. August complies, pouting. He looks simultaneously adorable and hot, which is a combination Ziyi should be used to, because Zhengting also has that infuriating power. Maybe that’s exactly why it  _ gets _ Ziyi, makes his stomach tie itself into knots. “Grab your coat,” he orders, the words spilling out of his mouth almost of their own accord. August stares at him blankly, confused. “You’re coming with me,” Ziyi explains.

“Dude, the mixed signals are killing me.”

Ziyi doesn’t dignify that last remark with an answer. “Tell your boss your shift is over, get your stuff, and meet me upfront. My car will be waiting.”

 

“You have a driver,” is the first thing August says as he climbs into Ziyi’s black BMW, settling next to him on the backseat. “Hi, driver.”

Yanchen greets him with a polite “Good evening, sir” that August decidedly does not deserve, but then again, Yanchen has seen much worse since entering Ziyi’s employ. 

“I’m a busy man,” Ziyi shrugs. August cackles at that, the brat. 

“Clearly.”

“At the club,” Ziyi insists, “I was working.”

August raises a dubious eyebrow. “Honey,  _ I  _ was working at the club. I still don’t know what the hell  _ you _ were doing exactly, but it sure as hell wasn’t work.” 

They don’t speak for a while after that. At some point, August must get bored of it, because he shuffles closer to Ziyi, starts nuzzling at the crook of his neck. His hand finds its way to Ziyi’s abs, fingers tapping a gentle rhythm, slowly traveling downwards. When they get to his belt, Ziyi puts his own hand on August’s. 

“No.”

“Why not?” August whines. “Why are you taking me home, then?”

“Not here,” Ziyi concedes. He hopes that semi-promise will suffice, but a minute later, August is palming at Ziyi’s bulge through his pants. Ziyi takes in a big gulp of air, but he doesn’t swat his hand away again. The friction is nice. He can feel himself getting fully hard again, but they’re almost at his apartment anyway. August is pressing sweet kisses along the line of his jaw, and if Ziyi closes his eyes, he can almost picture it—Zhengting’s car, the strong smell of leather and cigarette smoke, Zhengting’s mouth on him, Zhengting’s hand on his cock. But the car comes to a stop and Ziyi’s eyes flutter open, and just like that the fantasy is lost, evaporated. 

 

The doorman doesn’t even look at them, but Ziyi still feels a little bit self-conscious as they walk through the lobby. His erection is tenting his pants, and August’s outfit leaves very little to the imagination. The elevator ride to the penthouse is silent and electric—August is finally behaving, keeping his hands to himself. Ziyi is grateful for that. There is a camera in the upper left corner, and while acquiring that footage wouldn’t be an issue, he’d rather not have to ask any of his men to clean up after him. 

August presses him against the wall of his hallway as soon as the door closes behind them. He puts his thigh between Ziyi’s legs, and Ziyi cants his hips reflexively, his body thirsty for contact. 

“How do you want me?” August asks, tone sensual and low. 

Ziyi hooks two fingers under his chin, lifts his head up so that August can look him in the eye. “Slow down,” he says. “I like to take my time.” 

“Okay,” August says. “I can do slow.”

 

It’s still not as slow as what Ziyi yearns for, but it’s slow enough. They make their way to the living room, and August gasps at the size of his couch. Ziyi smiles contently. 

The foreplay is good—it’s objectively  _ very  _ good, August obviously knows what he’s doing—, but Ziyi feels hollow. August tries to kiss him on the mouth multiple times, but Ziyi turns his head, lets August’s lips land sloppily on his cheek instead. After a while August gets the message and stops, but he looks disappointed. Ziyi doesn’t know what to make of it. 

The sex is fine—the sex is great. August is on his hands and knees, and Ziyi gently wraps a hand around the back of his neck as he sinks into his tight heat, presses his face down onto the white leather of the couch. He moans every time Ziyi thrusts into him, and it sounds real enough. 

Ziyi comes with a grunt, chest flush against August’s back, and August follows him barely a minute after, stroking himself to completion with Ziyi still inside him. They untangle themselves from each other and Ziyi feels weirdly empty. 

 

“Who’s Zhengting?” August asks. 

They’re eating cereal in the kitchen. Some people smoke after sex, Ziyi gets hungry. 

“Where did you hear that name?”

August looks at him like he’s an idiot. 

“You called out for him while you were fucking me. Twice.” 

Ziyi’s cheeks are burning with shame. He shoves a spoonful of Coco Pops into his mouth to avoid answering the question. August doesn’t ask again. 

 

The next time, though—because of course there's a next time. Of course Ziyi goes back to the club, of course he scans the crowd for a head of blonde hair. Of course. 

The next time, though, August bends down—he has Ziyi on his back, is riding him like there's no tomorrow—and whispers  _ you can pretend I’m him if you want _ against Ziyi’s lips. They don’t kiss, but afterwards as they're laying down on Ziyi’s giant bed Ziyi drapes his arm around August’s waist, brings him closer. 

“Stay the night,” he demands. August nods in the darkness. 

In the morning, Ziyi cooks him breakfast. It’s all sickeningly domestic. August beams at him from behind his cup of coffee, and Ziyi feels his insides twist. 

 

There is a third time. Ziyi takes August out to the coffee place down the street afterwards, the one that makes delicious cappuccinos with hazelnut syrup; the one Ziyi goes to when he’s feeling down. 

 

There is a fourth time. They get breakfast at the Ritz-Carlton. 

 

There is a fifth time. They never make it to the brunch place August mentioned he wanted to try, because August sucks Ziyi’s dick in the bathroom while they're supposed to be getting ready to go out, and they miss their reservation. 

 

The sixth time, Ziyi kisses August. 

It’s a slow kiss, open-mouthed and messy. It’s a lazy kiss, post-orgasm, both their organisms still pumped full of endorphins. 

It’s a good kiss. 

 

The seventh time, August says, “Xukun. My real name is Xukun.” 

 

Ziyi looks at him, drinks him in. The razor-edged lines of his body, the soft curve of his smile. He is a land of contrasts, both quiet and sharp, acid on the tongue but mellow to the touch. Blond curls framing his face, under the morning sun, he looks like a prince. 

 

_ Ah, shit,  _ Ziyi thinks. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> i'm @pinkhairtaeyong on twitter and i need more npc peeps to follow so come say hello! hope you enjoyed this!!


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